


An Altmer

by Just Jo (aboxfullofocs)



Series: Wild Spirit [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:57:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aboxfullofocs/pseuds/Just%20Jo
Summary: Ulfric is met by a man seeking to become a Stormcloak. This man is a very strange altmer. Why would an altmer want to fight for the nords?





	An Altmer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a remaster of a previous story of mine by name "Altmer"

It was a altmer.

A high elf.

A mongrel of mixed blood but Ulfric Stormcloak was more than certain that the mer blood that ran on the veins of the man presented in front of him was altmer. The man was tall, taller than any Nord Ulfric knew, but with a slender build, fiery-red hair and green eyes that for a second made Ulfric think it was a human that stood in front of him, was it not for the gold tan of his skin and the knife-ears revealing the truth.

It wasn’t every day that a mer who’s skin wasn’t grey walked up to his throne. The jarl had elves in his city, several actually, but it was usually the dunmer from the Grey Quarter that came to him, demanding better living conditions, despite doing little to deserve any of it. Of course, there was the dunmer who owned Hlaalu farm, but that one was an exception – a hard-working elf, a man of honour and valour that deserved the respect he had earned.

Yet that mongrel-elf had walked straight up to Ulfric. He had seen him in his city before, yet he held a certain familiarity Ulfric was certain of. He didn’t know exactly where, but he had seen him elsewhere before.

The elf had a veilled expression, wearing dark worn leathers that knew well the weight of battle and the scorch of fire, and an old black wolf-fur hood that he had pulled back to reveal the red hair of a human with the knife-ears of the elves. He had waited patiently for Galmar and Ulfric to end their conversation and only when Galmar left and Ulfric took his seat did the curious mix-blood approach him.

“Only the courageous approach a Jarl without Summons,” Ulfric started, eyes meeting those of the elf. The edge of the white of the mer’s eyes were also gold, so well hidden and overpowered by the humanity of his eyes. “I believe we have met?”

“Helgen, we’ve met there,” was all the man said, in a worn rough voice, rather deep for an elf and with a puzzling accent.

“Ah, yes. We met at Helgen, destined for the chopping black if I’m not mistaken?” Ulfric realized.

“Aye,” he nodded. “Chose the worst moment possible to sightsee in lady Sky.”

“Indeed you have,” Ulfric lifted a brow. “And what brings you here?”

“I came to join the Stormcloaks.”

“An elf?” Ulfric asked lifting his brown.

“Where?!?” The elf exclaimed surprised and actually looked around.

Ulfric was confused at first until the elf’s narrowed and mocking grin fell on him.

“Oh! Wait!” And he reached for his ears. “Oh! Aye! So it seems! I do have the pointy ears! Sorry, mate. I forget at times! So glad everyone reminds me ALL. THE. TIME.”

Ulfric furrowed his brow and adjusted in his seat, half tempted to have the man kicked out for his insolence, but choose to wait. He wondered if the human-eyed mer was the Empire’s new plot for a spy, or perhaps the Thalmor? But he doubted, a mongrel of human and elven blood such as that would be met by a swift death at the hands of the Thalmor. He had never seen a mixed blood who was so clearly one. Usually they earned all the traits of their mothers, but that one, had quite the diluted blood.

“It seems like they did not remind you of proper education towards your betters, though,” Ulfric sneered.

“My apologies,” and the man actually bowed his head, a reaction uncommon among the haughty elves. He was more than certain non of the dark elves in his city ever apologized for being disrespectful, and they certainly were, half of the time they stepped into his hall, unannounced, and even before Ulfric had a chance to answer to whatever ‘pressing matter’ they had to discussed. “I am in no way here to be disrespectful; I am here to fight for the Stormcloaks.”

“I would normally ask if such desire is fuelled by ulterior motives,” Ulfric started, “but I do not see the Thalmor employing mixes like yourself. I’m therefore tempted to ask if Tuli-”

“The Thalmor and Tulius can suck my ginger-haired golden rod,” the man sneered underbreath. “I’d quicker present my arse with a ribbon to Molag Bal!”

The jarl lifted a brow and felt a small smirk twitching in the corner of his mouth.

“I am no spy, if that is your worry. I guarantee you the Legion looks with equal disgust to my kind the way the Thalmor would,” he continued, arms crossed in bitterness.

“I’m always looking for able fighters,” Ulfric actually found himself smiling. “Not everyone can say they made it out of Helgen, but it seems, these days, we’re all branded villains. So long you keep your criminal past in the past, and fight for me with honor and integrity, we’ll welcome you into our ranks.”

“Great, been itching to get even with the empire since they tried to give me Tamriel’s shortest haircut!” The elf’s serious demeanor disappeared, replaced by a wolfish grin, a glint of a bloodlust in a row of sharp teeth that reminded Ulfric of a wolf under lamb’s hide. “The quicker I achieve it, the quicker I can leave and  dance with a dragon.”

“Dragons you say?” Ulfric lifted a brow.

“Wouldn’t know anything about it?” He asked. “Heard rumors they came because of you.”

“These rumors know more than I, it seems,” Ulfric smiled. “Though it did come in an opportune moment, did it not?”

“Aye.”

“Go talk with Galmar, he’ll have a look at you before we let you join our ranks.”

“Galmar?”

“Galmar Stonefist,” Ulfric repeated.

“Stonefist? He wouldn’t happen to have a brother, would he?” The elf asked. “A local drunk? Likes to yell profanities at dunmer and argonians at high hours of the night?”

“Rolf, I have been informed,” Ulfric sighed. “I, however, have more pressing matters to attend than the complains of dunmer over an unruly drunk. I do believe the dark-elves are capable of looking for themselves?”

“I’m not asking you to. Just curious…”

Ulfric lifted a brow. “You wouldn’t happen to be the large elf that threw him over the bridge into ice cold waters?”

“What?! I would never!” The elf’s grin widened.

“Good. Because I want Galmar to be impartial, if he finds that elf, I’m afraid he’ll appoint him a Stormcloak Captain, immediately.”

The elf burst into laughter.

“I’m not kidding,” Ulfric lifted a brow, as serious as he was originally.

“Oh, you mean it?” The elf stopped laughing.

“Obviously,” Ulfric answered. “We all have that _one_ member in the family. Off you go.”

The elf bowed again respectfully and turned his back on the jarl, moving towards the map room to speak with Galmar. But a thought crossed Ulfric.

“Wait! Mix-blood,” he called.

The elf stopped.

“Why would you fight for Skyrim?”

The elf’s grin died instantly and was replaced by a grimace, a grimace of sorrow and frustration.

“I am tired to see the will of the people be sold so Cyrodiil can keep its arse warm and comfortable!” He answered, the bitterness tainting his voice. “I watched our ‘emperor’ sell Hammerfell so he could keep his throne, I watched him sell his own _soldiers_ for the right to keep his crown. Now he wants to sell Skyrim for the right to keep war cattle to fight for the right keep his arse warm? I will not let another race become the orcs of this new era, used as army fodder, but when we demand a right to a home and to our culture, the empire will ignore us.”

Ulfric straightened himself. The man had seen what happened in Hammerfell? How old was he? He couldn’t be very old, yet again, with those of elven blood, he could never tell, to him, the elf could not be late past his thirties. Yet, they lived longer, he was well aware there were elves around who had lived during the times of the Oblivion crisis. Yet, the elf’s voice was fuelled by such bitterness, such anger and pain, Ulfric had to wonder, who had the empire sold to the Thalmor for him to hate it so?

“So is that what you fight for?” Ulfric asked. “The rights of the people?”

“I fight for the right to be free,” and the grin slowly grew, that moment of serious pain and bitterness substituted by mockery. “Free to dance with dragons, dremoras, daedras, gods and spirits, and fight my way to Aetherius and beyond. Maybe have a drink with Shor in Sovngarde, or poke Magus in the Eye.”

Ulfric burst into laughter. “You’re insane!”

“Sheogorath can join the party! We’ll raise hell against the Thalmor. Hircine too! I volunteer to become the weredragon! My father always said I lacked common sense. I’d hate to prove him wrong!”

The elf grinned and Ulfric brushed his chin. “What's your name, mix-blood?"

"Lysander Fire-Bear!" And he bowed.

"Fire... Bear? As in-"

"Bowen Fire-Bear, aye!" And he smiled.

"Heard of him. My father said he was a great warrior, a warmage, one with no equal, capable of upleveling entire battlefields during the Great War!" And he leaned back. 

"So it appears," he shrugged.

"Didn't know he had an altmer child!"

"Not a lot of people know," Lysander shrugged, his eyes cold and veiled once more.

"What did happen to your father? Heard he was executed for treason," Ulfric pried.

"If that's what the Empire says, then it must be true," he purposefully answered, vaguely. So his father was a touchy subject.

"I see, well. Go to Galmar, mix-blood. He’ll test your valour.”

For a final time, the elf bowed and walked away. Ulfric watched, under all the mockery and foolery, there was bitterness and anger, bitterness and anger against an empire and their elven overlords. Ulfric was beyond curious, for who had the empire wronged to spark such hatred from a mix-blood of elven blood.


End file.
